


It's Just You & Meow, Against The World

by WhatLocked



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Assisted Wanking, Boys Kissing, Crack, Evil Kittens Sent From the Bowels of Hell, Frotting, I Mean Seriously...What Was I Thinking?, I think that's a thing yea?, If you love cats you may not like this...sorry, Jealousy, M/M, Oral Sex, Poor John, Scheming Sherlock, Sickeningly Sweet Displays of Affection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-28
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-05-16 09:46:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5823871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatLocked/pseuds/WhatLocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock doesn’t do sentiment, he doesn’t do affection and he most certainly doesn’t do baby talk, so it is only fair to say that John is left confused and maybe a bit jealous when the detective directs those exact things towards the new feline resident of 221B Baker Street…well, he could actually live without the baby talk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Just You & Meow, Against The World

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry if this comes bit wobbly - when posting something went not quite right and I had to re-format.
> 
> NTW

~~~~~~~~~~

It was a Thursday when the abomination had somehow wrangled its way into 221B Baker Street.  John had never been fond of Thursdays.  It had seemed like he could never get the hang of them but as he alighted the first flight of stairs of 221 Baker Street his Thursday got just that little bit worse.

Here would be a good place to mention that if John had never been overly fond of Thursdays then he was more than a bit appalled at the idea of cats.  Seriously, they were arrogant, lazy and extremely self conceited. They often left small dead animals anywhere they pleased, destroyed the furniture and were at times quite vicious without any provocation.  And as John was about to find out, not long after stepping into flat B of 221 Baker Street that fateful Thursday afternoon, they were also quite territorial and very possessive.

So, we can only imagine Johns horror when he took off his jacket, and hung it up, slipped out of his shoes, padded into the kitchen to make himself his usual after-work cup of tea and then went into the living room and sat in his chair, only to jolt right out of it again before his backside had even come fully into contact with the cushion.  This of course resulted in tea flying everywhere, John feeling confused and slightly panicked (keep in mind, he does suffer from PTSD) and a very angry ball of claws with fur attached hissing and spitting at him.

“What the fu….” John murmured to himself as he rubbed the back of his thigh where the…the…thing had dugs its claws in as he took in the sight before him.  It only took 2.8 seconds for him to come to the (correct) conclusion as to where this…creature had come from.

“Sherlock” he yelled, not once taking his eye off of the still hissing feline in front of him.  How could he, when it was eyeing him up like that with its eyes narrowed and its claws out and the low grumbled  _yeowwwww_  that was coming from its sharpened jaw.  If John were to look away he would most certainly find that thing attached to his neck via its pointed claws in no time.

“Sherlock” he yelled again, this time louder, because he knew his flatmate was home because that ridiculous (most definitely not sexually alluring) coat was still hanging on the hook, next to where John had placed his not moments ago.

“John, you’re home” Sherlock stated.  If John hadn’t been so focused on the cat in his chair he would have noted that it was rather odd for the younger man to be stating the blatantly obvious, but as it was he was still trying to wrap his head around the grey and black ball of fluff that had stopped hissing at the sound of Sherlock’s voice but was still glaring at John.

“There’s a cat.  In the flat.  On my chair.  A cat.” John said automatically, reminding himself of someone who was suffering from a severe case of Shock.  Why was Sherlock so calm about this?  Why did he act as if this was normal when it was so very clear that this was  _not_  normal?

“Yes John.  Wonderful deduction, and his name, if you bothered to read the tag, is Mister Whiskers” Sherlock replied also looking down at the cat in the chair.

“Mister Whiskers?”  John was starting to wonder if he had fallen asleep on the tube and been in an accident and was now having some weird coma dream.  First the cat and now  _Mister Whiskers_.  John frantically searched back over the past forty-eight hours to see if there was anything that would have triggered a relapse in Sherlocks sobriety.

“It’s a ridiculous name I know, but the girl at the shop said that that is what he was called and he seems to like it.  Purrs every time I call him, don’t you Mister Whiskers.”  And that was when Johns day went beyond weirder than he thought possible.  “Oh you’re a good kitty, yes you are.”  Sherlock was grinning down at the cat and gently ruffling up his fur behind his ears and cooing and talking to the thing as if he were one of those annoying parents who thought it was perfectly okay to speak to babies in stupid voices whilst using words like  _poopies_  and  _boo-boo_. It was most definitely not at all how he thought he would ever see Sherlock act.

In fact, John had seen Sherlock berate a middle aged woman for speaking to a child in that exact fashion, not two weeks ago, reasoning that the child would grow to mimic what it sees and hears and if she could not at least pretend to sound intelligent then maybe she should give the child a fighting chance by not opening her mouth at all.

“Sherlock, stop that” John said, uncertainty and maybe a bit of worry edging his voice.

“What?” Sherlock frowned, finally turning his attention away from the cat.

“It’s disturbing” John clarified, knowing damn well that Sherlock knew what he was talking about.

“What?” Sherlock asked again, agitation tinting his tone.

“That…just…stop it” John was clearly concerned now as he waved his hand between the man and the cat.

Sherlock frowned and then tilted his nose up in that haughty way that he has as he bent down and bundled the kitten up in his arms.  “I don’t know what you mean, John.”

“All, that…”  John bent over a bit and pretended to ruffle a cats fur as he mocked Sherlocks ‘baby’ voice “ _oh, aren’t you a good kitty, yes you are_ ”  He straightened up and angled a rather pointed glare in the detectives direction.  “It’s…just not right, okay.”

With another glare at John, both from Sherlock and the cat, the detective turned and carried the both of them off to his bedroom, leaving John alone in the living room, with an empty mug and a tea splattered shirt wondering what the fuck had just happened.

~o~

John was a fair man, it was true.  He was open minded and willing to give anything a go at least once, even when there was that sensible part of him that whispered in his head, ‘ _hold up there soldier, do you think maybe you should think this thing through a bit more?_ ’  Since meeting Sherlock that voice had been more vocal, and in turn, ignored more often, but that just proves the point that John, despite his usually correct assumption of what will probably not go down well, will give anything a chance, so it was safe to say that this courtesy was afforded to Mister Whiskers.  

Before John had gone to bed that night he had come to the conclusion that, despite everything he had learnt about Sherlock since meeting him, it was obvious that the man had become disturbingly enamoured with the vicious little feline, therefore John  felt it only fair to make an effort to also like the spitting, hissing creature who still thought that John’s chair belonged to it.

Once Sherlock and  _The Cat_  finished sulking in their room they had come out and the three of them (even John sometimes could out-eyeroll Sherlock) shared a dinner of Chinese on the couch in front of the telly. 

It was as they had just finished eating that John made his second mistake concerning  _The Cat_. 

“So, is this some sort of experiment?” He asked, directing his gaze at the animal that was now kneading at Sherlocks trousers and John winced each time one of it’s little claws audibly tugged at the expensive material.  The motion didn’t seem to be bothering Sherlock, but when John had received no answer from the man he looked up to see that something else had certainly bothered him.  Something that John had done apparently, as the glare that was coming from the younger man, one that was usually reserved for the most moronic of criminals who John was sure Sherlock thought had been purposely boring and predictable just to annoy him, was now being directed at the Doctor.

“An experiment?” he spat and John suddenly realised what he had done wrong.  “How can you, of all people, think that this…” and at this Sherlock gently picked up the kitten, (who had dug its claws in good and proper, trying to keep a hold of Sherlocks trousers and failing), and held it up to his cheek and gently nuzzled it  “…that this could be used in an experiment?” And he frowned, again, in John’s direction.

John was sure that his eyebrows were lost somewhere up in his hairline “So, just a pet then?” John asked gently, trying to calm the other man down.  Sherlocks eyebrows drew further together and the cat hissed in John’s direction.  

“Not just a pet” he promptly informed, sounding somewhat offended and got up and left the living room, taking  _The Cat_  with him.  Less then a minute later the sound of Sherlocks bedroom door being shut sounded and John came to the conclusion that he was on his own for the rest of the night, which was probably a good thing as he was still trying to get his head around it all.

It took almost the rest of the evening for him to get his head just a little bit around it and the conclusion that he had come to was that Sherlock had, from somewhere, gotten himself a pet and had instantly grown very attached to it.  It appeared that Mister Whiskers was here to stay, and if there was to be amiable companionship once again inside 221 B then John was going to have to try a bit better to like damned animal.

~o~

John came down stairs the following morning with a resolve to try and get along with  _The Cat_ , to give it a chance and was surprised to see Sherlock already up and sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea, the newspaper spread out on the table before him.  No feline in sight.   A sigh of relief almost left Johns mouth at the confirmation that Sherlock didn’t actually feel the need to be attached to the cat 24/7, when Mrs Hudson bustled into the kitchen carrying a familiar ball of fur.  

“Oh, aren’t you just the most precious little thing” she cooed, her spare hand stroking over the fur, and John could hear the purring from three feet away.

“Oh, good morning John” she smiled at him looking up to see him standing in the kitchen.  “Isn’t he just sweet?” she gushed, looking down at the yawning cat.  

“Hmmm” was Johns non-committal answer before he shuffled over to the kettle.

“Did you even go to sleep?” he asked, turning to face Sherlock as he waited for the kettle to re-heat.

“Of course I did.  Isn’t that what one normally does when they retire to their room for the night?”  An image of something else Sherlock could have done, with John if he let his fantasy get too carried away, flitted through his mind before he pushed it away and turned to grab a mug from the cupboard and set about making a cup of tea, thankful that the carton of milk had just enough milk left in it.

“Yeah, but you are not usually up this early, unless it is for a case.”  A thought crossed Johns mind.  “Is it for a case?  Did Lestrade call?

“Mmmm, no” Sherlock hummed as he pulled the mornings newspaper up to eye level.  “Mr Whiskers was hungry.”

It was said, so casually, without a hint of sarcasm, just as John was taking his first mouthful of tea and suddenly he found himself snorting it as he tried not to choke.

While he was trying not to die from his morning tea Sherlocks bored voice traveled up from behind the newspaper.  “Ingest, John, not inhale.  You’re a fully grown adult, and a doctor no less, you should know this by now.”

John resisted the urge to stick his finger up at Sherlock’s back, but that was mainly due to Mrs Hudson’s concerned look in his direction. 

“Goodness, John.  You should maybe drink a bit slower.  Makes going down the right tube easier.”

“Thanks Mrs H” he husked out, his eyes watering and his throat scratchy as hell.  He was probably imagining it but he was sure  _The Cat_  had a sardonic look on its face as it looked towards the throat clearing doctor.

John was wiping his hand over the mess that was now down the front of his shirt when suddenly the bundle of fur was shoved under his nose.

“Here you go dear” said Mrs Hudson.  “I need to get back down stairs to get the cakes out the oven.  I just came up to drop off your mail”

When John didn’t immediately take the cat she pushed it further towards John.

“No, I don’t think…” and he stopped as  _The Cat_  started hissing at him.  

“It’s alright dear” she told him gently.  “Not everyone is a cat person.  Although how anyone could not just fall in love with this cutie” she cooed back over  _The Cat_  again, and John just frowned at it, still not making a move to take the cat.

“Give it to Sherlock” John offered, but Mrs Hudson kept pushing it on him.  

“Nonsense, John.  Sherlock is reading the paper.  Mister Whiskers wants attention” and before John could protest anymore she placed the still hissing bundle of fluff in the crook of his elbow and let go.

“Just pat him and he will calm right down, you’ll see” and with that she turned around, leaving John with a hissing to go see to her cakes.

“Here” John said handing the cat over to Sherlock.  Sherlock looked up from the paper to John with something akin to hurt in his eyes.  

“You won’t even make an effort with him.” There was a slight quiver in Sherlocks voice and if John hadn’t seen the man pull the same stunt on witnesses and clients he would have believed it to be real.  In stead John just inhaled, deeply and patiently and raised his eyebrows as if to say  _really sherlock….seriously?_

At this sherlock stood up with a huff.  “Well, if you won’t even try” he spat and snatched  _The Cat_  from Johns hand and stormed off towards the bedroom muttering soothing words to the animal while he stroked it, and again, John was able to hear its content purring.  

John stood in the kitchen, after listening to Sherlocks bedroom door shut once again, and once again wondering what the hell had just happened, when his thoughts were interrupted by Mrs Hudson.  

“Woohoo” she called out, in her usual way.  “I noticed you were low on milk and just thought I would bring some more up” she announced, brandishing a small ceramic jug in her hand.

John shook his head to clear away the confusion and looked to his landlady and then the milk in her hand.

“Thanks” he muttered, reaching out to take the jug from her hand.  “I seem to need to make myself another cup” he said, and he did since half of his had either tried to force its way into his lungs or come out of his nose only to end up down the front of his shirt.

“Oh no, dear” Mrs Hudson said, pulling the jug back out of his reach.  “This is for Mister Whiskers.  What have you done with the little darling?”

John just blinked, wondering if he should storm of in a snoot that would make Sherlock proud or if he should laugh at the absolute absurdity of the entire situation.  In the end he did neither because Sherlock took that very moment to come out of his room, sans one cat.

“Oh, Sherlock.  I brought some milk up for the kitten” she told him, giving him that motherly smile.

Sherlock smiled back down at her, in that fond way he has for only a few people…and apparently a cat.  “Why, thank you Mrs Hudson.  I shall take it into him now” and he took the jug from their landlady and then strode towards John.  John braced himself for whatever Sherlock was going to throw at him this time, but instead the man strode right past him and went to the cupboard above Johns head.

“Is he not out here?” Mrs Hudson asked, looking around for  _The Cat._

Sherlock retrieved whatever it was he was looking for in the cupboard and strode right back past John. “No, Mrs Hudson.  I have had to relocate Mister Whiskers to my bedroom as John” and he spat Johns name in Johns direction, a small saucer (obviously what he had taken from the cupboard) waving in his hand, “has hurt his feelings” and with that the pompous git turned and stalked towards the bedroom, taking the only milk in the flat with him.

With a small sound of frustration John turned from where Sherlock had stalked out to Mrs Hudson, hoping to vent about the ridiculousness of it all, but was instead met with a disapproving glare.  Without any words she turned and left the flat, leaving John alone in the kitchen, once again wondering what the fuck was happening.

It was probably a safe bet to say that John had never been happier to have had to have gone to work.

~o~

John always prided himself on his patience.  Hell, it wasn’t just handy to have when living with Sherlock Holmes, it was a necessity,  right up there with how breathing was needed in order to live, but in the past four days his patience had been pushed to the limits.

It started on the day after  _The Cat_  had arrived at 221 B, the same day that apparently John had refused to make an effort because handling unstable hissing kittens made him nervous.  It was after work that John had gone to the shop and brought a few much needed items including milk.  Then to prove that yes, he was actually willing to make an effort, he went to the pet food isle and bought two cartons of kitten milk.  This had appeased Sherlock somewhat, but apparently  _The Cat_  was harder to win over.  It proved this by clawing its way into Johns chair and spitting and hissing every time John went to go sit down.  He had given up trying after Sherlock had bemoaned, for the fourth time, to just go sit on the couch as the cat would eventually get tired of the chair and when that was done John could have his precious chair back.  

When John had proposed that Sherlock could have the couch and John have the grey leather arm chair Sherlock had just scowled and said, “Don’t be ridiculous John.  This chair would be all wrong for you.  You’d be uncomfortable in less than five minutes.”  The answer was as much predicted as it was wrong.  John had sat in that chair multiple times, and though not as comfortable as his own chair, it was still quite nice to sit in.

But that still brought the issue back to the damn cat.  It had essentially and effectively kicked John out of his own chair, so to the couch he was exiled, where it soon became crowded with a detective who didn’t care how much he sprawled on the sofa, assuming Johns thighs to apparently be a good foot rest.  This also saw an opportunity for  _The Cat_  to pounce elegantly off of Johns chair and trot over to where Sherlock was laid out on the couch (and over John) to join in on the couch party.  The only time John had attempted to relocate to his chair after that had resulted in  _The Cat_  attaching its claws through Johns jeans and into the skin on his shins.  Sherlock and  _The Cat_ had retreated into the bedroom in a haughty huff and swirl of blue silk to sulk again after John had kicked his legs out in shock and pain, sending  _The Cat_  tumbling under Sherlocks chair as he yelled things like “ _Damn, fucking little bastard cat._ ”

The following morning John got up to make himself his usual cup of tea only to find that all of the milk was gone.  Again.  And that included the two cartons of kitten milk.

Why John had been surprised to find that it had all gone towards  _The Cat_  he would never know, as absurd as it was, but it did and John had left the flat, without tea or breakfast and grabbed something at Speedy’s before going to work for the day.

The following morning he had gotten out of bed and went down to use the bathroom, only to find that the door was locked.

“Occupied” Sherlock had called from the other side of the door, followed by the sounds of splashing water.

John thought that Sherlock having a bath that early in the morning was odd, but if he had come to learn anything since flat sharing with the mad bastard, it was that Sherlock was unpredictable and thought no more of it.  Until half an hour later after John had had toast and black coffee (because he refused to buy milk only for  _The Cat_ to do what ever it was a small kitten did with two litres of milk).  By then it was getting close to the time that John needed to leave the flat for work.

“Sherlock” John called as he knocked on the door.  There was the sound of splashing water again, and a slight muttered curse.  “I really need to use the bathroom.  I have to go to work soon.”

Impatiently, John looked down at his watch.  He only had twenty minutes before he had to be leaving the building.  In that time he needed to shower, shave and redress.  It was going to be a close call

The response he got did not help improve his mood.  “Well, use Mrs Hudson’s.  I’m busy” and this was followed by a  _meow_.

“Is that…” John called out, only to be stopped by another low, drawn out ‘ _meowwww_ ’.  “Please tell me that you are not bathing with the bloody cat, Sherlock.”

Suddenly the door unlocked and opened, just partially, to show a still fully pyjama clad detective, looking half drowned and somewhat dishevelled.  “Of course not, John” he snapped.  “I am giving Mister Whiskers a bath and your negativity is upsetting him, so if you would please….” Sherlock was abruptly cut off as a ball of sodding wet streaked out through the small gap in the door and fled from the bathroom towards freedom in the living room.

“Mister Whiskers” Sherlock called, flinging the door open and pushing past John, while throwing him a disapproving look that clearly said ‘ _This is all your fault, John!_ ’.  “We need to wash the conditioner out.”

With a somewhat frustrated, yet resigned sigh John stepped into the bathroom and instantly wished he hadn’t.  There was water everywhere, the shower curtain had been shredded in several places and the quarter full tub was not only filled with bubbly water, but was also covered in enough cat fur that John actually wondered how the cat wasn’t completely bald by now.  It would take forever to clean the tub of all the fur, therefore a shower was out of the question.

Trying not to give up on life altogether, John stepped over puddles and rumpled, drenched towels to the hand basin and filled it with warm water, ready to give his face a quick wash before an even quicker shave.  Once that was done he reached in to pull his toothbrush out of the cabinet only to find a few strands of cat fur in the bristles.  “How in the…” John just shook his head and, binning his toothbrush, proceeded to give his teeth a quick once over using  a bit of toothpaste on his finger.

He was seven minutes late for work.

John’s patience really started to collapse later on that night, after arriving home, not only to find that the bathroom had not been scrubbed clean of any of the cat fur, but also to find that Sherlock was still flouncing around in his pyjamas and robe, with  _The Cat_ , nestled comfortably on his shoulder.    

The patience continued to thin out when Sherlock refused to allow John to cook anything that was in the flat, as none of it was to the particular tastes of  _The Cat_ , nor did he make it easy in deciding what to order, carefully picking apart every single menu from every single take out place that they frequented (and a few that they didn’t) . Eventually they (Sherlock) decided on a ridiculously expensive sushi place that had opened up two blocks away.  

John was at almost breaking point when Sherlock told John to pick something on the telly.  After finally deciding on a movie John got comfortable, pointedly ignoring the way the cat would stop licking at Sherlocks knee to glare at him, only to have the remote snatched out of his hand with Sherlock snarling, “Honestly John, do you do it on purpose?”

John looked from the now empty TV screen to the mad man sitting next to him that now had a startled kitten clawing desperately to the front of his tee-shirt.

Obviously confused, John opened his mouth to ask what the crazy bastard was on about now when Sherlock violently pushed the button on the remote, bringing the TV back to life and muting it.

“This movie has wolves in it John.   _Wolves!_ ”

John looked from Sherlock to the TV and sure enough, there was a big Grey wolf stalking an unarmed man.  Again, Sherlock spoke (lectured) before John got a chance to voice his confusion.

“Wolves are dogs, John.  Dogs are cats natural enemies.  They  _eat_  cats, John.  Are you trying to frighten Mister Whiskers on purpose?” and with that he turned back to the TV and hitting the buttons on the remote, probably with way too much force, he flipped through the channels, stopping on a documentary about tuna fishing.

“Much better” the detective muttered down to  _The Cat_ , stroking its fur lovingly and with a mixture of exasperation, confusion, anger and jealousy John stood up and went to bed early, not saying goodnight to either Sherlock, who was watching the TV while steadily patting his new favourite resident of 221B Baker Street or to the  _The Cat_  who was staring at him with its mouth open wide in its silent hiss that it seemed to reserve for John when no-one was looking at it.  John glared back as he turned out the door and made his way up to his room.

His patience finally broke the next day when Greg had come over to try and talk Sherlock into helping them on a murder that had been open for a month now, with no new clues.  As he had sat down on the couch  _The Cat_  had trotted from Johns chair and pounced up onto Gregs lap and started purring as it rubbed its face contentedly on his shirt.

“Hello” the DI said down in surprise as the purring got louder, and to Johns despair, he smiled down at the creature and started patting it.  “Who have we got here?”

Automatically he looked to John as John placed a cup of tea on the coffee table.  John was about to shake his head when Sherlock piped up.  

“That, Lestrade, is Mister Whiskers.  My new flatmate” he announced proudly.

John almost tripped as he made his way back into the kitchen to retrieve his own cup of tea and swore under his breath, silently throwing every curse he had learnt in Dari at  _The Cat_.  When he came back to the living room he, for what felt like the first time in an age, sat in his own chair, only to be hissed at.

John ignored the cat, who seemed to settle back into Gregs attentions, while still glaring at John. Sherlock also glared at John as if to say, ‘ _Why do you do this?.  You know it upsets him._ ’  John also ignored that look too.

He gave a tight grin and sipped his tea when Greg chuckled at the cats reaction to John and said, “Obviously not your cat then.”

“So, what about this…” John started, only to have Sherlock talk over him.

“He really likes it when you rub under his chin” and Greg followed Sherlock’s instructions to rub under  _The Cats_  chin, which increased it’s purring.

Again, Greg chuckled.  “I’d never thought I’d see the day when you would be so smitten with something that wasn’t dead or mouldy."

It is about then the John’s tether well and truely reaches its end.

“For god sake.  Can we please get to the part where you plead for Sherlocks help, then Sherlock can pretend he is above the petty likes of the case and then you can pull out the clincher that makes him pretend he is doing it as a favour for you, but he is in actual fact  _not-so-secrtetly_  ecstatic over the prospect of the entire thing.”

Gregs hand stopped mid stroke and he stared at John, his mouth dropped open in shock, his eyes unblinking.  Sherlocks face wasn’t much better and  _The Cat_ had its mouth open in its silent hiss, apparently very upset that John’s little tirade had interrupted its chin massage.

Finally Sherlock found the will to pull himself together.  “Don’t mind him, Gavin, he is jealous of Mister Whiskers.  He has been since he arrived in the flat.”

“Jeal…that is not…you know what, forget it” John finally spluttered standing up to get his jacket.  “When you two actually want to discuss the case, give me a call.  I’ll be down at the pub.”

John didn’t see the looks on their faces as he left the flat, but he could only assume that they looked similar to the ones after his original outburst.  He heard a high pitched  _meow_  as he the stepped out onto the street, shutting the door firmly behind him.

John came home from the pub later that night, to a silent house.  Obviously Greg and Sherlock and  _The Cat_  had decided that they didn’t need his help on the case and had proceeded without him.  

Wishing he hadn’t had the third beer and had taken up the red heads offer of a bed for the night he made his way to the fridge, in order to get the milk out to make himself a cup of tea.

He hadn’t even been slightly tempted to take her up on her offer, despite the fact that she was what he would normally deem as way out of his league, but that was his problem tight there.  Being attracted to people who he had no chance with.

“Maybe if I had fucking whiskers” he mumbled as he opened the fridge only to swear, loudly.

On the shelf, where there had been almost two full litres of milk, was now an almost empty carton which had a note, scrawled in black marker on it.

“ **Milk for Mister Whiskers.  DO NOT DRINK**.”

“Fuck you Mister Whiskers” John muttered and pulled the milk out of the fridge.

A groan of pure frustration left his mouth as he saw the rest of the carton.  On the other side, also in black marker, another note had been scrawled. 

“ **Infused with fish flakes.  Not fit for human consumption.** ”

Finally fed up John opened the milk container, and blanching at the smell of now curdled milk mixed with something disgustingly fishy smelling, he emptied the entire contents down the sink, recapped the bottle and put it back in the fridge before heading up to his room for an early night.

~o~

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.  You too!”

Mycroft looked up from where he was stroking the ball of fur nestled in his lap, and John couldn’t help but think of Dr Evil from the Austin Powers movies.  At any other time, with any other cat, he would have laughed at the comparison.  Now he just wanted to scream and rage in frustrated anger.  If he had thought he could get an ally in this madness he would have put money on Mycroft for sure.  Apparently he had been wrong.

“Is there something the matter, Doctor Watson?” Mycroft asked, looking up where John was standing in the doorway, clutching a shopping bag full of milk, jaffa cakes and cat-stay-away-spray, which he had intended on spraying on the chair (his chair) that Mycroft was currently sitting in with  _The_  fucking  _Cat_.

Sherlock, who was sitting in his own chair, violin resting against his chest as he randomly plucked at strings and looked to him with an eyebrow raised in…was that amusement? 

The Cat hissed.

Suddenly John wanted to laugh.  The kind of laugh that a mad man does when he realises that he isn’t actually quite as sane as he thought.  He didn’t, but it was a close call. “You know what” John said with a huge grin on his face.  “Nothing is the matter. Everything is perfect.  Please, continue.  Don’t mind me.”  

John was rambling.  He knew he was rambling and he didn’t care.  He dumped the groceries on the kitchen table, not giving a shit about the milk in the bag (it would only be gone by the time he got back home anyway) and he turned and marched right back down the stairs because John was a man that avoided violence whenever possible and if he were to stay in the flat and listen to one more person coo over that fucking feline, he was going to hurt someone and he would put everything he owned on that someone being Mister  _Fucking_  Whiskers.

~o~

Wednesday was the day that John Watson had decided that he had had enough.

For months he had secretly lusted depressingly after the detective, resigning himself to the fact that Sherlock did not do relationships, sentiment or adoration.  

For the past week he had discovered that the man was actually capable of those things, they just were not applied to humans, and that made Johns infatuation with the man just that much worse.  

For the past week he had also put up with fur in the bathtub, milk going missing by the litre on a daily basis, unexpected claws to the shins or hands, the inability to sit in his own chair, the sound of hissing every time he got near Sherlock and constantly being ignored by practically everyone who walked into the flat in favour of  _The Cat_.  

There was also the scratch marks on various pieces of furniture, hair balls left in the hallway and bits of loose cat biscuits that the animal managed to fling out of the bowl on the kitchen floor that really dug into the souls of ones feet if they were to trod on them in the middle of the night while getting a glass of water.

Now, John wasn’t a needy man.  He wasn’t vain or so self absorbed that he demanded attention.  He left those particularities to his flat mate, but a whole week of being pushed aside for a fucking cat will leave a person standing on the edge, ready to blow up at just the slightest thing.  Even the most patient man had his limits and it was Wednesday night that John found his.

Sherlock had been absorbed in one of his ridiculously mad experiments and had, on multiple occasions, told John to stop talking or stop thinking as he was being distracting.  He had banned John from walking past him at certain stages of the experiment as if Sherlock was knocked while carrying out certain steps the whole thing would be ruined.  So John was basically exiled to his room or the living room and had to stick to a code of silence, although he was sure Sherlock would prefer him being comatose.  

This didn’t bother John overly a lot as he was quite content sitting on the couch with his cup of black tea attempting the crossword that was only just readable due to the claw marks that had shredded a quarter of the page.  And for two and a half hours the two of them worked on their respective projects and stayed out of each others hair.  

Then he heard it. 

_Meow._

John waited for Sherlock to say something disparaging to  _The Cat_ , but nothing happened.

It wasn’t even two minutes before the sound came again. 

 _Meowwww meow_.

Again, John waited for the snide comment, but again there was nothing. 

Thirty or so seconds later it came again, this time longer and louder.  John grinned as he heard Sherlock move in the kitchen, expecting him to push  _The Cat_  away with some snide comment, but it didn’t come.  

Johns grin dropped in hopeless incredulity as he heard  _The Cat_  being lifted off the floor and being placed on the table.    

“There you go Mister Whiskers” Sherlock said soothingly.  “That’s better, isn’t it?”  From where John was in the living room he could hear  _The Cat_  purring happily and he knew it was being rubbed under the chin.

John muttered sarcastically under his breath about how wonderful Mister Whiskers was and then cursed him again in Pashto.

“John, if you are going to mutter unintelligibly, go do so somewhere else, somewhere where someone might actually appreciate it.” drawled Sherlocks deep voice, lilted with just a hint of annoyance.  To offer its support The Cat meowed and then hissed.

Inhaling deeply John decided that that was actually a perfect idea.  On his way home from work he had seen one of the coffee houses advertising a local band for the night.  At the time he hadn’t thought much of it, but right now it seemed very appealing indeed.  Getting up he grabbed his coat and slunk into it.  Patting down his pockets he located his phone and keys, but no wallet.  

A quick look around the living room turned no results so he stepped into the kitchen to look for it only to arrive just in time to witness the precious Mister Whiskers pouncing towards the flame on the bunsen burner and knocking a flask of bright pink liquid over the tissue samples that were currently being delicately sliced by the detective.  

John braced himself for a string of insults being thrown at the cat about its annoying stupidity and about how much of a nuisance it was and a possible abandonment out on the cold steps of 221 Baker Street.

What John wasn’t prepared for was Sherlock jumping to his feet and picking  _The Cat_  up, holding it close as his hands felt over the small body looking for any damage while muttering soothing words to calm the animal, which now had a pink patch of god knows what on the top of its head and two front paws.

As Sherlock cooed over the stupid fucking furry animal in his hands John finally decided he had had enough.

“You are kidding, right?” He practically yelled.

Sherlock just looked up, surprised and confused, his hands pausing in their ministrations over the cats grey back.

“Seriously?  You are just going to coo over it and comfort it?” John really wanted to pick something up and throw it.  

“John?”  Sherlock questioned and John was starting to believe that he really had no idea why John was pissed off.

“For the past two hours I have been told to shut up and stop thinking.  I have been warned, rather intently I might add, to stay clear of you lest I accidentally knock you and ruin this whole fucking primary school set up.”

Sherlock clearly blustered at that claim.  “Primary school…” he started, but John hadn’t finished.

“And here comes  _Mister Whiskers_ ” John throws the name out in a poor, but recognisable imitation of Sherlock “and knocks the entire lot over and you pick him up and coddle him and reassure him.  

“He is a fucking cat Sherlock!”  Now John was yelling.  “He doesn’t care that you care or approve.  He doesn’t give a shit that you kept calling him by that quite frankly ridiculous name.  He recognises that you are the one who feeds him.  That is all.  If anyone else were to take over the job he would be all over them.  In, fact, he does it to anyone who pays him any attention.  He is an attention whore.  He. Doesn’t. Appreciate. You.” By then John was in a right state and apparently any filter he had had, used in the past to stop him from letting Sherlock know just exactly how he felt about him, was well and truely turned off.

“He’s not even interesting, yet for some reason, which I cannot seem to get my head around, you have become completely bloody enamoured with the damn thing.  What the fuck happened to sentiment being a weakness?  For god sake, if I had known that being tetchy and moody and god damn boringly useless was the way to get your attention I would have stopped trying months ago, because trust me Sherlock, keeping you even remotely interested is hard fucking work and not once have I demanded anything of you.  Expected, yes, but never demanded, especially not your attention, but for some reason you are happy to completely change your attitude and lower your expectations for something as insignificant as a cat.”

John was well and truely into his rant now. He was so distracted by getting everything he wanted to say out of his mouth that he didn’t see the odd look, which was crossed between mild shock and smugness on Sherlocks face, or the hiss that was issued by the cat, that he just continued.

“I have given into all of your blatantly ridiculous requests and all I ask of you is that you put the body parts in sealed and labelled containers.  I don’t force myself on you nor do I make any advances that I had assumed you would find uncomfortable as I was certain that you didn’t do feelings.  I most certainly never expect you to reciprocate any of the feelings I have for you and that is fine, it really is fine. I could have lived with that, but seeing you get all mushy over a fucking cat.  I’m sorry, Sherlock but I can honestly not sit back and watch it any longer. “ 

By the time John had finished his tirade he was slightly breathless and as he took in a few deep breaths his head started to clear and he came to a deep, cold realisation of everything that just spewed from his mouth and his entire body succumbed to a numb feeling, except for the ball of barb-wired wrapped worms that were wriggling and rolling in his gut.  He wanted to open his mouth to apologise and to deny everything he had just said but his mouth and his brain were refusing to cooperate.  But it wouldn’t matter anyhow, for after approximately 3 seconds after the realisation of what he had done had hit John, Sherlock let go of his grip on Mister Whiskers and, with the cat falling to the floor with a rather indignant  _meow_ , he took the two long steps it took to get to John and brought his mouth down to the smaller mans in a rather bruising kiss.

Now, John ‘three-continents’ Watson was no stranger to kissing.  Slow kissing, fast kissing, chaste and dirty kissing, planned kissing and kissing that took him completely by surprise.  He had kissed men and women, both older and younger than himself, he had been peoples first kiss, last kiss and everywhere in between kiss and there had been bad kisses, good kisses and bloody fantastic kisses, but not a single one of those kisses had prepared him for the assault on his lips by the plump, lush and very enthusiastic lips belonging to one Sherlock Holmes.

It was hot and hungry and had lips and teeth and tongue.  It was wet and smooth and tasted divine and it made Johns head light and his knees heavy.  It was, in a word, perfect and once John realised what was actually happening, he brought one hand up to grab Sherlocks shirt, pulling him close and the other hand came up to tangle in those riotous curls and he was kissing Sherlock back with just as much fire.

Somewhere, someone moaned and John couldn’t give a flying fuck if it was him or not, so long as that mouth didn’t pull away from his.

“John” Sherlock managed to gasp with his mouth still pushed up against Johns.  John just felt that he needed to push harder and proceeded to do so until Sherlock actually did pull away.  John would have complained but the sight of the usually controlled and put together detective was certainly a sight to behold. 

His hair was a mess, his cheeks flushed an adorable shade of pink.  His eyes were almost completely black, a thin ring of green circling his pupils and his lips were slick and swollen and red and John almost whimpered at the thought that he had done that to the man.

“John” he repeated and he sounded wrecked, his voice slightly hoarse and probably a bit higher pitched than normal.  He cleared his throat and then continued.  “I don’t know about you but I would be much happier taking this to the bedroom.”

John didn’t need to think about his answer so he grabbed Sherlocks hand and began tugging him towards the closest bed, which happened to be in Sherlocks room.  They were half way through the kitchen when John was brought to a sudden stop by a hissing sound which was accompanied by a sharp pain in his leg, caused by  _The Cat_  latching on and clawing him through his jeans.

Before John could get to wrenching the damn thing off of his leg, Sherlock swooped down and pulled the animal up into his arms and the anger that had fled John, moments ago, started coming back as he waited for Sherlock to come to the defence of poor, innocent Mister fucking Whiskers.

“I refuse to go any further with  _that_...” and he spat the last word as he pointed at the animal in Sherlocks arm, refusing to hear what ever defence Sherlock had prepared,  “...here!”

Without another word Sherlock turner and, yanking open the kitchen door, rushed out to the landing.

“Mrs Hudson” Sherlock yelled down the stairs.  It was only not even half a minute before the downstairs door opened and Sherlock took off to meet their landlady half way, Mister Whiskers clutched in his hands.

“What’s all the racket, Sherlock?” She asked, worry tinting her voice.

“Here, take this” John heard him order and a disgruntled  _meow_  could be heard as he assumed Sherlock thrust the cat into Mrs Hudson’s hands.

“Sherlock, what’s this all about?” John should have felt bad that Mrs Hudson sounded even more concerned but he was finally getting rid of that fucking cat and, even better, he was getting Sherlock.  The smug grin, that had formed comfortably on his lips dropped away as he heard Sherlocks next words.

“Me and John are about to have sex and he refuses to do it while the cat is in the apartment.  Congratulations!  You have a cat.  Bye now.”

John didn’t get a chance to hear Mrs Hudson’s protestations as Sherlock only took a few brief seconds to turn, thunder back up the stairs and slam the door shut, locking it to avoid any further interruptions.

“Weren’t we on our way to the bedroom?” Sherlock asked hurriedly, grabbing Johns hand and yanking him towards the bedroom in question and suddenly a bubble of laughter burst out of John as a sudden realisation hit him.  

The past week suddenly seemed to make some sort of sense.  

The presence of a cat of all things in 221 B, Sherlocks confusing and disturbing behaviour, the missing milk, the over sensitivity towards the cat and the reprimands towards John over stupid little things, such as watching a movie with a wolf in it.  The whole thing had been horribly uncharacteristic and each step had been played in order to piss John off that bit more each time.

“Did you get a cat to make me jealous?” He laughed, bringing the two of them to a halt on the wrong side of Sherlocks bedroom door.

“Well, it worked” was Sherlocks answer and he flung the door open and dragged John inside the room where they began to pull at buttons and zippers and buckles, stripping each other off efficiently.

“How much did you actually even like the cat?” John asked as his pants dropped to the floor.

“I hate cats, John.  Not only did it ruin three pairs of my trousers it also used my slipper as a litter tray.  I sedated it every night so it wouldn’t bother me.”

John should have reprimanded Sherlock over that but he couldn’t find it in himself to care.  Instead he was staring at the scratch marks all up Sherlocks arms.

“Cat’s really don’t like baths” Sherlock informed John when he saw the other man looking and at that John burst into a fresh wave of giggles.

“Could we possibly stop talking about the animal now and maybe focus on this” Sherlock grumbled and wrapped his hand around Johns very erect penis.

The giggles suddenly stopped and were replaced with a sharp inhale as Sherlocks grip tightened to just the right side of uncomfortable and he stepped closer to John.  

“Because, this” and his hand ran down Johns length and then back up again, “is what it was all for, after all.”

“You could have just asked” John gasped as Sherlocks hand repeated the motion.

“I was only 97% certain that you were interested in me.  I wanted to be 100% certain.”

“Dropped hin…hints then” John suggested, but the sentence was broken as Sherlocks thumb rolled over the head of Johns cock before sliding back down.

“I didn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable” Sherlock answered and then brought his mouth down to Johns neck and a small whine left Johns throat as Sherlocks tongue and lips worked at the skin where his shoulder and neck met.

“Pretty sure you failed on that front” John murmured as Sherlocks tongue trailed over to the other side of his neck.

“John” Sherlock said firmly, but softly.  “Stop talking now.”

And John did.  He forgot about  _The Cat_  and Sherlocks scheming and his own rather obvious and maybe too intense jealousy and just focused on what Sherlock was doing to his body.

Suddenly Sherlocks mouth stopped the wonderful things it was doing and his hand dropped away from Johns erection, but before John could become confused and try and figure out what he had suddenly done wrong he found himself being manhandled, backwards, until the back of his knees hit the mattress and he went tumbling backwards, bouncing slightly as he landed on the bed.

Without any warning Sherlock was crowded over him, herding him up the bed more, so he was fully on it and then his mouth went back to John.  On his shoulder and neck, up to his chin and along his jaw until it stopped under his ear and John shivered as Sherlock breath rolled over his skin as he muttered huskily, “I have wanted to do this for such a long time, John.”

Johns reply was to tangle his fingers through Sherlocks hair, encouraging him to continue.  “Me too” he managed to stutter as Sherlocks tongue managed to reduce him to a writhing puddle by focusing on the area behind his ear.

“I have thought of so many things I want to do to you.  It keeps me awake at night” he husked into Johns ear and then his lips started moving down again, as visions of Sherlock masturbating to thoughts of him filled Johns head.

“Oh, god” John practically pleaded.  “I’d let you.  Anything, Sherlock.”  John hissed as Sherlocks teeth clamped over his nipple and bit down before he continued his journey downwards.

By the time Sherlock wrapped his lips around the head of Johns cock, John was a sweating, panting mess.  A hoarse cry left his mouth as Sherlocks tongue ran along the frenulum only to swipe over the slit before he took more of Johns cock into his mouth, hollowing out his cheeks as he worked down the shaft.

Johns fists gripped the sheets and he tensed his thighs to stop himself from grabbing Sherlocks head to hold him still while he fucked that perfect mouth.  The muscles in his thighs trembled with resistance and almost became impossible to resist as Sherlock took all of John into his mouth, his nose buried in Johns pubic hair, the tip of Johns cock hitting the back of Sherlocks throat. 

A string of swear words left Johns mouth in a mixture of English and Pashto as Sherlocks tongue ran up and then down the sensitive underside of Johns prick, before sucking hard, sending a wave of something too-damn-good rolling through his body.

“Sher…stop…I don’t…I want…with you…” and he tugged on Sherlocks shoulders, an involuntary whimper leaving his mouth as his cock slipped out from between Sherlocks lips.

Sherlock wasted no time sliding back up Johns body and re-situating those very lips back onto Johns, his tongue pushing into Johns mouth, his teeth nipping Johns bottom lip.  John groaned, his body arching up to press itself against Sherlocks, needing to touch, to feel as his tongue pushed into Sherlocks mouth lapping up the bitter taste of himself that was still evident on Sherlocks tongue and taking in the spicy, sweet taste that was all Sherlock.

A moan rolled from Johns mouth into Sherlocks as the younger man thrusted his cock up against Johns and wrapped one of his large hands around the two of them.

“Fuck” John panted and bucked his hips, a jolt of something akin to pure electricity travelled from his cock and up his spine sending every nerve ending tingling.

He thrust again as Sherlocks hand started moving over them, deep swipes down their lengths and back up again.

John reached around Sherlocks body to grab two handfuls of firm, lush arse and pulled the man above him as close as he possibly could, without having Sherlock remove his hand from where it was wrapped around the both of them, moving in a steady rhythm each stroke met with a thrust from Johns hips.

“Not long” John panted, his hip thrusts increasing.  Sherlock just grunted in reply and John could only assume that from his laboured breathing and the rhythm of his hand faltering that the other man was close too.

Sherlock dropped his head to Johns shoulder and started licking and sucking at the skin on his collarbone, while the pressure of Johns hand on his arse increased to a bruising grip, the sound of both of them moaning and panting filled the room, along with the slick sound of Sherlocks hand rubbing over them and the Johns hips slapping against Sherlocks.  

“John” Sherlock whispered frantically.  “Johnjohnjohnohgodjohnnnnn” and with that his hips pushed forward as his grip on them tightened, his head falling back as he arched his back and the feeling of something wet and warm splashed onto Johns belly.

The sound of Johns name coming from Sherlocks mouth, sounding so wrecked, the tightening of Sherlocks hand around their cocks and the knowledge that he was coated in Sherlocks come was enough to send John over the edge.  With a shout of Sherlocks name Johns hips stuttered and he pulled Sherlock even closer as his own seed spilled over Sherlocks fist, landing on his own stomach to mingle with the mess already there.

With one final shuddering breath Sherlock pulled away from John and dropped to the side, rolling onto his back so the two men were lying side by side, staring up at the ceiling, their chests rising and falling too fast, only to slow down and eventually move in sync with the one next to it.  Not a word was uttered, not a move was made as John and Sherlock let the reality of what they had just done sink in.  Unsurprisingly neither one could see any problem with it and just continued to enjoy the peace that had settled between them.

“You do realise that because you have sedated the cat every night for a week, it is not going to go to sleep for Mrs Hudson” John said thoughtfully, breaking the silence in the room.

“Would you like me to go down and relieve her of kitten duties?” Sherlock asked, sounding like he would rather invite Mycroft around for some brotherly bonding.

“Oh, god no” John admonished.  “I never want to see that thing again in my life.”

“Then I guess it is a good thing that Molly Hooper is in need of another cat, since hers passed away not even a week ago.”

“Oh my god.  You had this completely planned.  Even down to the point of where the cat would go at the end of it all” and at that realisation John giggled.  “You are utterly mad.”

He turned his head to look at the man next to him, who still looked completely blissed out.  Sherlock turned to look at him.  They both grinned.

“And yet, here you are, lying next to me in bed, naked and covered in both of our semen.”

Johns grin grew.  “I didn’t say I wasn’t mad as well.”

They both turned to look back up at the ceiling again.  “I should tell her not to give it milk” Sherlock stated suddenly, only sounding a bit concerned.

“Why, has it has its daily 2 litres worth today?” John asked somewhat sarcastically and sort of not really caring about what the cat does or does not drink.

Sherlock slowly inhaled, almost as if he was contemplating something and then said, “No.  Kittens shouldn’t have cows milk.  It gives them bloating and diarrhoea.”

“What…jesus, she has probably already given it….” John was now scrambling around on the floor for one of their pairs of trousers in order to extract a phone.  Finally he plucked his phone out of his pocket and fired off a quick warning text to their landlady, followed by a rather sincere apology for any trouble caused.

“If the cat doesn’t drink milk then where has all of our milk gone this week?” John asked dropping the phone onto the floor and settling back on the bed.  The two of them continued to stare up at the ceiling but as Sherlock answered his hand slid over Johns and their fingers twined around each others.

“What I didn’t drink got poured down the sink” he informed John lazily.  John filed this information away to be angry at when he had more energy, too happy at that very moment, laying there completely sated, just being close to Sherlock and holding his hand.  After what they had just done the simple gesture seemed terribly intimate and John wasn’t quite ready to let that go.

They stayed that way for a couple more minutes before Sherlock finally broke the silence.

“How do you feel about dogs, John?”

“We are not getting a dog Sherlock” John retorted sleepily as he fought the downward tug on his eyelids.

“I was thinking a British Bull Dog” Sherlock said, ignoring Johns dismissal at the idea of getting a dog.

John sighed internally and knew that no matter what he said, if Sherlock wanted a dog then in time a dog would find its way into 221B Baker Street, and British Bull Dogs were perfectly acceptable animals.  Better than cats at any rate.  “Only if we can call him Gladstone” he replied, deciding that if Sherlock got to choose the dog then he should be able to choose the name.

“Gladstone?” Sherlocks tone was curious, but not displeased.

“It beats Mister Whiskers.”

“That it does.”

Again, silence descended on the two men, still laying, unmoving on the bed, linked by two hands resting between their two naked bodies.

“So is that a yes, John?” Sherlock finally asked and John thought that now was not the time to be thinking about animals.

“Go to sleep Sherlock” he said in lieu of an answer.

Much to Johns surprise, the taller man did just that, after rolling over and tucking his head onto Johns shoulder, not once letting go of Johns hand.  John turned his head so his nose was nestled in Sherlocks wayward curls and closed his eyes happier than he had ever been as the sleeping man currently curled up next to him practically purred, satiated and happy and thoroughly worn out.


End file.
